The Dead Room

Five doorways, each door opened, the lights turned on. Clothes had been tossed into the hall. Bathroom items were scattered across the blond oak hardwood flooring in front of her – a tube of hair gel, hairspray, tampons and pills.

Looking into the bathroom, she saw a medicine cabinet, its doors open, the shelves wiped clean. Mouthwash, shampoo and pill bottles lined the bathtub. Each bottle had been emptied and searched. Two prescription bottles were floating inside the toilet.

They were looking for something small. A key maybe.

Across the hall was a small, carpeted room used as a home office. Shades drawn, desk overturned and closet shelves emptied. Every inch had been methodically searched.

Had the house been broken into before the mother and son arrived? Then, frustrated at failing to find whatever it was they needed, had they started to torture the mother for information?

Fingers pulled back, broken.

Tell me where it is.

Fingers cut off one by one.

Tell me where it is.

Did she tell? Did she know anything? Darby moved to the two rooms at the end of the hall.

The first, long and airy, contained only a sewing machine and a chair. Shades covered the windows.

The mattress in the second room had been pulled from the bed, cut with a knife and searched. No shades covering the windows; she could see members of the Photography Unit still taking pictures of the back gate. Clothes on the floor, the kind a male teenager would wear – Abercrombie & Fitch T-shirts and jeans, athletic shorts, sneakers and flip-flops. She found an empty red duffel bag with a shoulder strap, the kind used for travelling, lying underneath an overturned nightstand.

Darby took pictures, then moved down the hall and stepped into the master bedroom, surprised to find it neat and orderly. A big-screen plasma TV hung on the wall across from a king-sized sleigh bed. The twin cherry- stained chests-of-drawers hadn’t been overturned or searched; the drawers were still intact. Like all the rooms with windows facing the street, the shades had been drawn.

The only item in here that had been disturbed was a suitcase sitting on top of a leather footstool. Clothes inside, a few tossed against a leather club chair set up in the corner.

Had the search been interrupted? Had someone been standing here when the gunshots went off?

Darby found a small piece of blue latex caught on a zipper’s metal teeth. In her mind’s eye she saw the dead man from the woods, latex gloves covering his hands.

Did you touch this suitcase?

She pictured him standing here, his gloved fingers searching through each pocket when the first gunshot rang out. She saw him reaching under his suit jacket for his sidearm and then rushing for the stairs, heading downstairs into the kitchen and seeing… what? What did you see?

Darby pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes, trying to focus on the faceless man who had touched this suitcase. Snapshots of what had happened in the woods – stun grenades exploding with light; the man with the night-vision goggles; two men hauling a body up the incline to the waiting car. The dead man wore a suit and latex gloves. White shirt covered in blood. Someone had shot him.

You were inside the house, weren’t you? And I know you didn’t come here alone. You had to have brought at least one other person to help you search a house this size. Was this person shot and dragged away?

Did you help subdue the woman and her son? Did you tie them up and go back to searching the rooms while your partner tortured her? Or did you help? Were you standing in the kitchen when you heard the gunshots and exploding glass? I think you were, my man. If you had been upstairs when you heard the gunshots, you would’ve had time to draw your weapon. You would have come downstairs firing. I would have found evidence of gunshots.

I think you were caught by surprise. I think you were in the kitchen when someone shot you in the chest. I think you didn’t have time to pull your weapon.

Darby opened her eyes, wondering what had happened to the dead man’s partner. Was there another body lying somewhere in the woods? Or had the man with the night vision and his crew already carried away a second body?

She felt confident that the night-vision man and his two suited partners hadn’t been inside the woods at the time of the shooting. If they had been there, watching, they would have been long gone by the time the first responding officers arrived.

A trail of blood ran across the living-room carpet, down the porch steps and across the grass. A bloody handprint was smeared on the gate. She pictured the man running through the dark woods. Was he trying to find the incline leading up to the street? Did he have a car parked somewhere on the road?

She hadn’t found any vehicles parked along the shoulder.

And the men from the woods, someone had to have summoned them. She thought about the phone lying on the ground and pictured the man in the white shirt bleeding from his chest as he made the call. Did he drop the phone as he searched for a place to hide and wait? Why hadn’t he reached the road? Had he passed out from blood loss along the way?

Darby wondered if he had dropped anything else inside the woods.

Why didn’t your partner or partners inside the house help you? What happened?

Darby heard car doors slamming shut. She pulled back the shade and saw the lab’s second crime scene vehicle parked against the kerb. Two men, a Mutt and Jeff combo if ever there was one, paced the pavement near the bonnet. Randy Scott, thin and impeccably neat with black hair greying around the temples, stood a foot taller than his stocky partner, Mark Alves. She had hired the duo from the San Francisco Crime Laboratory, where they had gained a reputation for uncovering crucial, overlooked evidence on a number of high-profile cases. If something else had been dropped in the woods, they would find it.

Someone knocked on the bedroom door. She turned and saw Coop.

‘The Wonder Twins have arrived,’ she said.

‘I know. Randy called to let me know he was here.’

‘I’ll go speak to them.’

‘I’ll do it. You need to go to St Joseph’s Hospital in Belham. I just got off the phone with operations. A Belham patrolman called looking for you. The kid says he wants to speak to a Belham cop named Thomas McCormick. Isn’t that –’

‘Yes,’ Darby said, blood beating in her eardrums. ‘That’s my father.’

9

Darby stood with Pine and a Belham patrolman around the corner from the nurses’ station, next to a trolley holding discarded cafeteria trays. The odours of sour milk and steamed vegetables were a welcome relief from Pine’s cigar stench.

The patrolman’s name was Richard Rodman. His thick grey hair, carefully combed and parted, did not match his youthful face. Darby thought he looked like a budding politician stuffed inside a cop’s blue uniform. He held a white-paper mailer spotted with blood from the teenager’s bloody T-shirt. The emergency room physician had cut the shirt off the teenager and then had the good sense to transfer it to a paper bag. Plastic bags broke down DNA. Not all doctors knew this.

‘I was sitting on a chair outside his room when he opened the door and asked if I knew a Belham cop named Thomas McCormick,’ Rodman said. ‘I said no, I didn’t, and the kid said everyone called McCormick Big Red. Kid said he needed to talk to McCormick but wouldn’t tell me why.’

Rodman looked at Darby. ‘I remembered seeing you on TV last year when you caught that whack-job, what’s his name, the guy who shot women in the head, put Virgin Mary statues in their pockets and dumped them in the